


I'm so sorry that you have to have a body

by lesbianbookworm



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Episode: s07e08 Time for a Wedding, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Protective Dean Winchester, Traumatized Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:27:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28383984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbianbookworm/pseuds/lesbianbookworm
Summary: It's been two weeks since Vegas. Two weeks since Sam annulled his marriage to Becky. Two weeks since they let her go, tuck tail, run and hide. It's been two weeks since Sam slept through the night, if he sleeps at all. Okay, so maybe that is something they should talk about.OR: coda to 7.08 where dean gets that what becky did was horrible and tries to support sam through the aftermath
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, past becky rosen/sam winchester - Relationship
Comments: 11
Kudos: 132





	I'm so sorry that you have to have a body

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to say thanks first and foremost to the "sam side of tumblr" discord for the great conversations and for giving me the inspiration that lead to this ficlet in the first place! Another special thanks goes to beenicetobees for the help betaing this.  
> The title comes from the song "body terror song" by AJJ.  
> Trigger warnings for: implied sexual abuse, violence, mentions of throwing up and some sexist and ableist language from Dean

If he had tried harder, kept a better lookout, Dean thinks, maybe he could have kept Sam safe this time. If he had noticed what was going on earlier, if he hadn’t just stood there, dumb-founded and confused and unable to act. If he had interfered faster, maybe then Sam wouldn’t be locked up in the bathroom right now, probably curled up around the toilet if the retching, sobbing sounds echoing through the motel room just a few minutes earlier where anything to go by. But he hadn’t, so all he could do now was help his brother pick up the pieces.

It’s quiet now, but he can still hear the hitch of breath, the hiccuping sound of someone crying, but trying desperately not to be overheard. He takes a deep breath, tries to calm his shaking hands and the anger raging through him as he steps away from the bathroom door and walks to Sam’s duffel bag to grab a fresh change of clothes. That at least is easy. That at least doesn’t require too much thinking. His hand hovers over the shirts, fingers curling around one to lift it out of the bag. He stops when he realizes which shirt he grabbed. Okay, so maybe it requires a little bit of thinking. Dean does his best to dampen the rage that courses through him at the sight. It’s the blue and gray one that Sam was wearing when- Well, it’s probably not the best idea to give that one to Sam right now. Probably better to put it away for a bit. Dean buries it on the far side of the duffel, stuffing it behind the jeans and under the socks. Somehow he doesn’t think that Sam will bitch about it getting wrinkled this time. The action gives him a moment to collect his thoughts, and Dean fucking hopes it’s gonna be enough time for him to find something helpful to say. 

At least Sam is safe. At least Sam is here with him and they can try to work through this together. His steps to the bathroom door are swift and sure and even his hands have stopped shaking. It helps that he’s clutching the clothes he’s holding in a grip tight enough to whiten his knuckles, but he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. It helps and if he’s fantasizing about tracking that bitch down and putting his fists through her face, well, Sam doesn’t have to know about that. He swallows hard before he raps his knuckles against the door. 

“Hey, Sammy, I got you some fresh clothes. Thought you might need ‘em.”

It’s quiet for a second and for a horrible, terrible moment Dean remembers coming home to Bobby’s place only to find it empty, Sam having run off with Lucifer in the passenger seat. At least that’s gotten better. Or as good as it’s gonna get for them. 

Then the silence is broken by Sam clearing his throat. “Thanks”, he says finally, and then it’s quiet again. Dean remembers other times when Sam had woken up from a nightmare, unable or unwilling to talk about what he had seen, the name of a woman on his lips. Dean wishes suddenly, desperately and selfishly, that it was still Jess that gave Sam nightmares. Sweet Jess who had simply gotten caught up between fronts and died for it. Sweet Jess who Sam had felt guilty about - probably still does, because Dean knows Sam and he never lets something go. But no, it hadn’t been Jess that Sam had dreamed about. If it had been Jess he wouldn’t be locked in a bathroom right now. If it had been Jess there wouldn’t be the stench of stomach acid permeating the air. If it had been Jess then Dean would know what to say. 

But it wasn’t Jess’s name Sam had said. It was _Becky’s_. And Dean wasn’t blind, he wasn’t stupid. He had seen and understood the way Becky had looked at his brother, crazed stalker eyes and wet dreams born from her weird-ass obsession, hands way too grabby for comfort right from the beginning. He thinks if he ever meets Chuck again he’s going to shoot him in the foot on principle. And destroy his computer. Either way, he’s pretty sure he can imagine the things Becky had done to his brother after she drugged him. It’s not like he’s never experienced that kind of attention from some weirdo himself. They just never managed to slip him a roofie that made him _marry_ them.

He swallows his anger again when he hears shuffling from inside the bathroom and quickly puts the clothes down in front of the door before moving back. The door is unlocked and opened. Sam stands in the open door, face red and puffy, hands wrapped around his middle as if that’s supposed to hide the tremor running up and down his arms. His eyes flick up to Dean’s face and then back down to the pile of clothes. 

“Thanks”, he rasps again and Dean is left speechless for a second at how weak his brother’s voice sounds. It’s as if he’s talking to the little boy Sam used to be, not the 6’4’’ giant leaning against the door frame.

Dean licks his lips nervously, lets the silence stretch like a rubber band. God, he’s got to say something now or it will snap and his brother will disappear into the bathroom again, and having a door between them won’t help Dean find the right words. “If you ever wanna talk about… things…”, he gestures at this, lets his hands do the talking and wishes desperately he could do that forever. “…you know, I’m here. To listen or whatever you need me to do.”

Sam nods tersely and opens his mouth to answer - probably some excuse, some “thank you, Dean, but I’m fine. Really. Sure, I go on hours long runs every day and fucking Satan lives in my head, but that’s called coping. Don’t you read PsychologyToday, Dean?” - except then he suddenly flinches, eyes flickering to something on his left and his mouth snaps shut again, lips curling into a disgusted frown. 

Dean knows he’s got to act now, or Sam will lock himself away, recede into his brain and chat with Lucifer instead of him. So he presses forward, batters himself against Sam’s defenses. “I mean it. It’s been a while since we had a good talk anyway. So, how ‘bout you get dressed and I’ll get us some beer, and if you’re hungry I can grab some grub too and then… We’ll just have a little chat, okay?” Sam hesitates again, probably thinking about how to make the best excuse and weasel his way out of the conversation, until he can shut down again and ignore what’s happening. The rage inside Dean bubbles up again, but with Becky long gone (and Sam having asked him to let her go, as if she didn’t deserve to be buried 6 feet under), there’s no one to direct it towards. No one but Sam. But he’s not the one Dean wants to fight, not right now. “I know who you were dreaming about”, still slips out, some part of Dean wanting to taunt Sam until he breaks out of his passivity and springs into action. When it registers what he just said Dean snaps his mouth shut hard enough to make his teeth rattle. Fuck, he hadn’t meant to say that. Or at least not like this. Not when it makes Sam pale and flinch back, eyes big and hurt. But Dean knows he’s got to continue now. He’s afraid of saying the wrong thing, knows the way his tongue can lash out like an angry snake, spewing poison at anyone that’s close, even if they don’t deserve it. Even if he knows it’s wrong. So he takes a deep breath, tries to remember what Lisa told him while he was with her and didn’t know how to talk about the things that made him angry (tries not to think about what he did to her after and forces that anger down as well). “You said her name before you woke up and ran to the bathroom”, he answers Sam’s unspoken question.

“Oh”, Sam finally says, a defeated breath deflating the tension that’s keeping his shoulders taunt and he slumps forward. “I… Sorry for making you worry. Sorry for waking you. I’m fine now.” It’s the same mantra Sam has been preaching ever since Cas broke his wall and again Dean is filled with that helpless rage that’s been racing through him since Cas betrayed them all. 

His hand clenches at his side and he sees Sam’s eyes flicking down toward it, shrinking back. Dean forces himself to uncurl his fingers (he’s gotta be calm now. He can freak out later) and he stuffs the anger down further. “Sammy…” (the flinch is barely noticeable this time and Dean counts that as a win) “that’s not what this is about. Like, sure, I’m worried, but I always am, that’s not the issue here. It’s just…” _You’re crazy and then that bitch messed with your head as well and I’m scared it fucked you up beyond repair and that I can never fix that. And I know you said you don’t want me to take care of you all the time, but that’s all I know how to do, and if I can’t even do that right then what does that make me?_ “It's just… it might be good if we talked about stuff. Made sure we’re on the same page about it.” He moves back until he hits the bed and sinks down on the mattress. Step by staggering step, Sam follows to his own bed, only stopping to grab the blanket thrown off in his earlier scramble to the bathroom to toss it beside him. 

“If you’re worried I won’t have your back during a hunt-” Sam begins, but Dean interrupts him.

“I don’t mean that either. It’s just… it’s been two weeks since Vegas and you’ve been waking up like that nearly every night… if you sleep at all that is. And I get that we can’t really go to a therapist in our line of work unless you want to end up like Martin, but you’re the one who always says it’s healthy to talk so… feel free to lay it all on me, dude, I’m here to listen.”

Sam stares for a second, then sighs. “Well, it probably wouldn’t be a bad idea if we skipped our annual Vegas trip next year.” Sam’s lips quirk up and Dean can’t help but roll his eyes at the small attempt to lighten the mood. 

“Sam… I’m serious-”, he begins, but this time Sam interrupts him.

“Look, I get what you’re trying to do and I appreciate it, but I don’t know what you want me to say. Like you said, I can’t really go to a therapist about any of this and it’s over… it happened. What’s talking going to change now?” He shrugs and trails off again, his voice quiet and calm throughout the entire sentence, only faltering a little at the end, as his eyes flick over to someone invisible beside him again, another flinch following as he’s listening to whatever garbage the devil in his head spews at him. 

And then the rage is back and Dean’s mouth moves faster than he wants it too. He leans forward, ignores the flinch at the sudden movement - Sam knows he’s safe with him, if nothing else, he has to know that much. “Why aren’t you even a little bit angry? And don’t give me that Yoda crap. You didn’t spend enough time in the desert for that to work.”

Sam huffs out a tense joyless laugh and grabs for the water bottle on his bedside table. “What would it change?”, he says, tilting the bottle back and forth in his hands.

Now it’s Dean’s turn to stare at his brother as if he’s grown a second head. “Everything. Sam, and I can’t believe I’m the one saying this, but talking helps.” He knows he sounds sarcastic, can’t help but bury the rage (and fear, mainly fear and helplessness and it’s like hell all over again) under layers of the stuff, until the words he says aren’t what’s needed at all. “I just want you to be honest with me. I just… I think it would help. You haven’t been sleeping well and god knows, you haven’t been eating right in… forever. And I can’t fix all the other stuff, but her? Her we can deal with, if you want to.” If Sam said the word, if Sam wanted him to, he’d hunt her down like the other monsters they’ve taken care of over the years. He remembers the rope burn that Sam hadn’t been able to cover on his wrists, had noticed the way Sam eyed any drink that didn’t come from a sealed bottle since, had seen the way Sam had brushed his teeth in the motel that night, the motions aggressive and surely harsh enough to make his gums bleed. He’s pretty sure he knows what she did to me, even if Sam refuses to talk about it.

Sam drops his gaze, his stupid floppy hair covering his face now and Dean wishes he’d brush it back or tie it into a ponytail so Dean could judge his reaction at least. He wonders if Lucifer is whispering other things in Sam’s ear, overlaying Dean’s pleas. He wants to dig his finger into the stitches on Sam’s hand and make him listen. It’s quiet and this time Dean lets the rubber band stretch itself further, waits for Sam to break the silence.

When Sam starts speaking, stoic and calm, the only thing revealing his nerves are his trembling fingernails scraping over the water bottle, peeling off the sticker. “So what do you want me to say? That I lied when I said I felt happy with her? Because I felt better than I have in… a while. A really, really long time. Or that whatever she gave me made me follow her around like a love sick puppy, made me only think about her. That it covered everything else and until it wore off I didn’t even think about _him_ once? That… as bad as it was to wake up from it when she had tied me down in her bed, it was worse once I was back in the car with you, because now I notice the _other_ stuff again? Are you sure you can deal with that?” It should sound accusatory, but it doesn’t. It just sounds tired. Again it’s only his hands, violently shredding the sticker as the words tumble out of his mouth emotionless, that reveal what must be going on inside his head. Dean hates it.

He clears his throat, taken aback, unsure of what to do now. His mind staggers through the sentences, gets caught on the _bed_ and the _him_ and the _happy_. Then the last sentence sinks in and Dean knows what he has to say. Everything else is hard, complicated and scary. But that? That is easy. “Yes.”

Sam looks up, squinting through his messy hair, fingers stilling on the bottle. “What?”

“Yes, Sam, we can also deal with that.” Sam finally lifts his head all the way, eyes still squinting and fixed on Dean as if he’s expecting him to pull the rug out underneath him any second and start laughing, mocking; _Punk’d! Real men don’t talk about their feelings!_ Dean forces a grin on his face, layers his helpless rage and his terror with fake confidence and a wink. “I mean, I was kinda thinking more along the route of hunting her down and then salting and burning her, but the other stuff… Yeah, we can deal with that too. Stone Number One, right?”

And that, that finally makes Sam smile, makes him really look at Dean, and Dean knows he’s got him. It might not be for a long time, might only be for a little bit, just until the next nightmare or the next trigger, but for now, Sam’s gonna be okay.

“I’d like to burn some of my clothes”, Sam finally says when the smile drops off his face.

“Sure”, Dean replies, and when he hands Sam the lighter as they stand beside a dirt road a few streets away from the motel, a pair of jeans, the blue and gray flannel and another gray shirt on a pile in front of them, it feels like a win.


End file.
